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You great loggerhead of a dunce-says Master Lingo-spell the word again-B-i-r-Bur m-i-n-g-ming-Birming-h-a-m-ham, Birmingham-Oh, you stupid dunce,-I shall never beat any thing into that thick skull of yours! 'tis Brumidgum-I tell you once more-take that (cries) with your

High down, &c.

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Oh! my dear-my adorable-my lovely, my angelic-Eliza-suffer me thou paragon of beautythou terrestrial charmer, to approach thee

High down, &c.

Then the soldier ripe for plunder,

Breathing slaughter---blood and thunder.
Like a cat among the mice,

Kicks a dust up in a trice.

And talks of shatter'd brains,

Scatter'd limbs, and streaming veins.

Fight and fly,

All to fill, &c.

Run or die,
Pop and pelter,

Helter shelter.

Oh! such a bloody day; there was I marching along up to the knees in blood---Cannon balls flying about like---Cock-chaffers in a summer's evening---whiz! comes one in a direct line to me--but I being aware of him---I up with my broad

́sword, and cut it in two---one half flew into the

air, and the t'other--

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Sirrah an't your name John Day,

All to fill, &c.

Yes an't please your worship so they say; Pray did you not get the girl with child in the barn?

Yes, an't please your worship, I tho't no harm. Why, you rascal do'e come

rhymes ?

here to make

Yes, an't please your worship sometimes.

Take this fellow away-take him out of my sight: That's what I wanted-so I wish you

High down, &c.

Then the slipper'd pantaloon,

In life's dull afternoon;

With spectacles on nose,

Shrunk Shanks in youthful hose.

His voice once big and round,

Now whistling in the sound.

Body bent,

Vigour spent,
Shaking noddle,

Widdle waddle.

All to fill, &c.

Ah! Lord bless you all my dear children, many a long day I have travelled in the rough and smooth road of life-and do remember when.honesty and

industry-were rewarded-but now bribery and corruption choak up the seeds of merit--but 'tisHigh down, &c.

At last to end the play,

Second childhood leads the way;
And like sheep that's got the rot,
All our senses go to pot.

So death among us pops,

And down the curtain drops.

Corps in ground,

All to fill, &c.

Glass goes round,
Vicar and Moses,

Toast their Noses.

High down, ho down, derry derry down,

All to fill up this farsical scene O!

"

ALDERMAN GOBBLE.

Tune-Heighol says Rowley."

TOM GOBBLE was a grocer's son,
Heigho! says Gobble;

He gave a ven'son dinner for fun,
And he had a belly as big as a tun,
With his handy dandy, bacon and gravy,
Ah! ah! says Alderman Gobble.

The servant usher'd the company in,
Heigho! says Gobble,

The dinner is ready, quoth Tom, with a grin,

So he tuck'd a napkin under his chin,

With his handy dandy, bacon and gravy,

Ah! ah! says Alderman Gobble.

Then Betty the cook, she gave a squall,
Heigho says Gobble,

Poor John the footman has had a fall,
And down stairs tumbl'd yen'son and all,

With his handy dandy, bacon and gravy,
Alas! says Alderman Gobble.

So down the Alderman ran in a fright,
Heigho! says Gobble,

And there sat John in a terrible plight,
Astride on the ven'son, bolt upright,
With his handy dandy, bacon and gravy,
Dear me! says Alderman Gobble.

Was ever man so cruelly put on,

Heigho! says Gobble;

Get off from the meat you rascally glutton,
You've made my ven'son a saddle of mutton,
With your randy dandy, bacon and gravy,
Good lack! says Alderman Gobble.

Lord, Sir, says Betty, what a splash,
Heigho! says Gobble,

'Tis a monstrous bad rumbusticle crash,
But to-morrow Ill tickle it up in a hash,
With my handy dandy, bacon and gravy,
Ay, do! says Alderman Gobble.

MON AT MESTER GRUNDY'S.

GOOD law, how things are alter'd now,
I'm grown as fine as fippence;
But when I'd use to follow th' plough,
I ne'er could mester thrippencel
But now, why who's so spruce as I,
When going to church o' Sundays?
I'm not poor Will o'th' yate, by guy!
But th' Mon at Mester Grundy's.

I'd use to stride about i' clogs,

As thick as sides o' bacon;
But now my clogs, as well as hogs,
I've totally forsaken:

And little Peg, I lik'd so well,
And walk'd so with o' Sundays,
I've left, and now 'tis cook-maid Nell,
And th' Mon at Mester Grundy's.

One day I met my cousin Ralph,
Says he, "how art ta, Willy?"
"Begone," says I, "thou clumsy oaf,
"And do not be so silly:"

"Why does t' forget since constant we
"To market trudg'd o' Mundays?”
Say I, "good Lad, don't talk to me,
"I'm th' mon at Mester Grundy's."
"Gadzooks!', says Ralph "who art ta now;
"I thowt no harm i' speaking,
"I've seen th' day thou wert at plough
"Was glad my hand t' be shaking;
"But now, ecod, thou struts about,
"So very fine o' Sundays,”

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"Why aye," says I, you clod get out,
"I'm th' mon at Mester Grundy's. "

On nice thick porrage, and sweet milk,
At whoam I liv'd i' clover;

And wish'd such feasting, while I liv'd,*
No never might be over:

But, zounds, did yo' but see me now,
Sat down to dine o' Sundays,

Ecod, you'd stare like ony thing,

At th' Mon at Mester Grundy's.

Now I'm advanc'd fro'th' tail o' th' plough Like many a peer o' th' nation,

I finds 'tis easy knowing how

T' forget one's former station: Who knows but I may strut a 'squire, Wi' powder'd wig o' Sundays, Though now content to be no higher, Than th' Mon at Mester Grundy's.

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